Röc the Warrior

Röc might as well peek inside the ruined huts. Röc didn't have the luxury of securing their things before exile, and his learned instincts tell him to loot. Still, Röc will try to be cautious; who knows what claims these huts, and if they're friendly. Especially when Röc is still dressed in his tribal garb. It's quite possible Röc could be mistaken for a raider, so Röc makes sure to keep their weapon sheathed and try not to surprise anyone.

Röc also makes sure to stop and pet the sheep. Röc never got to pet animals before.

This day isn't going well so far. No petting the sheep, and now Röc's about to startle a poor homeowner. And worst of all, no petting the sheep!

Röc clears their throat and speaks. "Hello?" Hopefully the stranger in the hut is friendly. And doesn't freak out at the sight of a big lizardfolk warrior encroaching on private property uninvited.

They're adorable. Röc resists the urge to pet them, even though their big green eyes and fluffy mop of hair clearly deserves it.

Instead, Röc thinks back to their upbringing in their former tribe, and what the shaman would advise: "Eat them already, Röc!"

...on second thought, maybe a polite greeting would do.

"Um...hello. How are you?"

"Uh...fine.

...

...

...

Röc is starting to realize his life in the tribe did not train him to be a conversationalist. A raider, a bandit, a pillager, sure. But a conversationalist? Not particularly. You just didn't need to speak much when you're stabbing a poor traveler to death and looting their things. If anything, the less you spoke, the better; every word brings potential for an ambush to be revealed.

...Röc really hopes there isn't a bounty on his head. In his tribe, you only get exiled if you're too dangerous to kill. And you're only considered dangerous if you've taken a few lives. Sure, Röc avoided it when possible, to the ire of his tribemates. But when it wasn't possible...

This brooding isn't progressing the conversation. Maybe...try being honest?

"Uh, I'm Röc. I thought these huts were abandoned. I'm sorry."

Röc hesitates. Identifying with the lizardfolk tribes of the swamps might not be the best idea, given their likely reputation. On the other hand, can Röc really deny it? Drakonheim is supposed to be somewhat tolerant of...unusual creatures. And the way Röc's dressed, well, it gives the game away.

"Not anymore," Röc says. An honest answer, even if it's painful to admit. "I didn't mean to bother you, I was just passing by. I'm sorry."

Röc takes a breath. As friendly as Diffin is, it's unlikely he's offering work or renting out a room. And right now, Röc needs coin and a place to stay. "Do you, uh, know where the nearest gate is? I didn't see any from the road."

Röc readies his claws, but doesn't quite draw his weapon yet. They could simply be approaching to talk...though the pace of their charge makes Röc guarded. If they try anything, they'll taste claw. Or at least that's the plan.

Röc told himself they'll taste claw. Now it's time to slice.

Röc considers fleeing, but to where? Back to poor Diffin's cottage, a zombie in pursuit? Run all the way back to their tribe and beg for forgiveness? Like that'd ever happen.

No, Röc has to fight. If these thralls were living humans, Röc would try to scare off the other at this point, preserve their life. But there's no life left to preserve.

Röc's adrenaline peaking, he charges the remaining zombie with claws outstretched. One way or another, Röc's getting into Drakonheim.

The adrenaline of victory washes over Röc, and he unleashes a mighty ROAR to the heavens before then chowing down on his kill...only to spit out the rotten flesh. Disgusting. He'll have to find food elsewhere.

As Röc enters the city streets, he begins his search for a tavern, or better yet an inn. He tries his best to blend into the crowd, but that's not exactly easy given his appearance and stature. Probably best to just move fast.

From the reactions of pedestrians, it seems being discreet isn't an option. Röc starts to wonder if he should find another establishment in a more diverse neighborhood. But the more Röc walks around aimlessly, the greater the chance he encounters another one of the zombies. Röc's heard the rumors, that necromancers operate openly in this city. It's what led him to believe this city might be accepting of, well, monsters like himself. And if the necromancers' thralls attack him on sight, well...probably best to get off the street, and soon.

Röc enters the establishment, coin in hand, planning to order whatever's on the menu. Hopefully payment will smooth over the server's attitude. And given he has no leads on work, asking a knowledgeable bartender is the next best thing. If they're even willing to serve him, that is.

"...sure." Röc's never had a proper meal, he realizes. Not like the civilized people do. First time for everything, he supposes.

Röc places his coinpurse on the bar. "I'm, uh, sorry for the ruckus. I'm in Drakonheim looking for honest work."

The silence is deafening. Röc can feel eyes staring at him, like he's on a stage. Something new awakens in him, something he's never had to encounter before: social anxiety.

"Uh..." Röc is realizing that, despite his exile, he really is a warrior at heart. And a warrior's home is in battle, not conversation. Achingly awkward conversation.

If Röc had sweat glands, he'd be drenched in nervous sweat.

Once, Röc's tribe stole a keg of dwarven ale as part of a raid. The memories of drunken lizardfolk are...not pleasant. And the stench of alcohol coming off this dwarf's breath is bringing back those memories.

"Not from the marsh anymore," Röc says. "Doubt you're hiring for...whatever it is you do for a living?"

A lead on a job! From a drunkard, sure, but coin is coin. And if Röc is going to survive in civilization, they'll need that coin.

"Nice to meet you, uh, Kaalish. Is Donny your friend? I'd like to meet them."

What could possibly go wrong? [/Tempting fate]

Röc knows things! Sometimes. Maybe.

Röc has, in fact, never had tea. They've had close, though; his former tribe's shaman concocted all sorts of "tea" from the swamp foliage. The tastes were... questionable.

As for the dwarves drinking the tea, they don't seem like army recruiters. But what does Röc know? Led through a dark alley, past locked doors opened by secret knocking patterns...maybe it's just how it works in Drakonheim. Being a soldier sounds...not fun, but Röc is capable enough. And he needs the coin.

"Röc," Röc replies to the silver-bearded dwarf, but stays silent otherwise. Probably best not to speak unless spoken to.

Röc eyes the griddle cakes and honey. Not meat, like Röc's used to. But Röc always struggled with hunting anyways. Too much sneaking about, not enough primal combat. Though regardless of how it's obtained, probably best not to eat their host's food unless it's offered.

"I've heard rumors, seen undead on patrol," Röc says. "These guards don't seem to like me much. Attacked me without a word."

Röc is getting the feeling that these dwarves are recruiting him into some sort of resistance. Though, if Röc already can't walk the streets without being attacked by zombies, maybe a resistance is the safest place to be.

Röc understands words! Mostly. Dennis didn't use any big ones, at least. Röc's tribe might not have been the best conversationalists, but coordinating an ambush still required a decent degree of communication skills. And Röc's tribe loved their ambushes.

"Only words I don't know are the Grey Society," Röc says. "You don't make them sound so good, with their list. They with the necromancers?"

"I'm in," Röc says. Privately, Röc contemplates how they've left their tribe only to once again find a living fighting. Though perhaps what matters is what you fight for.

Röc thinks he likes this Dennis character.

The meat tastes...expensive. Röc feels like they're wasting some chef's time, when he could just have the meat unflavored. It's not bad, the opposite in fact. But Röc can't help but miss their "poor person's food".

No, Röc doesn't understand themselves, either.

Röc nods along to the plan. He understands the logic; fighting every patrol they see would quickly wear them out. But he can't help but wonder how lucky they'll need to be to catch a home invasion in the act. Maybe if the victim cries for help, they'll be able to locate them? And avoiding the patrols until then will be challenging, to say the least.

Röc's starting to realize this resistance is under-resourced. But they're providing food and shelter, so he'll have to be a loyal soldier.

Before dismissing from the briefing, Röc gets the names and specialties of his fellow soldiers. He'd like to know more about whose watching his back, and whose back he's watching in turn.

Funny. One dwarf talks forever, the other barely talks. Regardless, Röc answers any questions about himself the two may have. It's only fair, given Röc's the outsider among them.

Once chit-chat has concluded, it's time for planning...only Röc realizes they're completely out of their depth. Yes, Röc has attended many ambush planning meetings while apart of his former tribe. But those ambushes were always with home field advantage. The swamps are not the city, and so Röc is broadly unfamiliar with the terrain.

To compensate, Röc spends as much time as possible studying maps of the city, in particular the Market District. Röc spots what looks to be an open plaza near the bridge, which seems to Röc to be too easy to become surrounded in. But it doesn't look like there's any way to avoid it without going past potential patrols, and it has good access to the rest of the district.

Röc presents his findings to the group. Röc shares his opinion that the plaza seems the best place to post up, with both easy access to the bridge and the rest of the district. The group can station there until they hear or see any signs of a home invasion; broken down doors, shouting, etcetera. They'll be able to quickly respond, and if they bite off more than they can chew, retreat across the Big Bridge.

Back in Röc's former tribe, interjections like Gurtha's were usually rewarded with a claw to the face. But Röc decides against such a reward. Gurtha's got a point, anyways: a wide-open plaza isn't the best place to hide from passing patrols.

"All right then," Röc says, "We could lurk in the alleys east of the plaza, where most of the buildings in the district are. It'll take us farther away from the Big Bridge, so if we get into trouble, it'll be harder to fall back. But if the escape across the Big Bridge gets blocked, we'll be closer to the Docks; we could try fleeing there and getting back into Little Grendus from the eastern bridge. All depends on how the patrols react, if an alarm is raised at all."

Röc bellows a breath of slight exhaustion. This plotting stuff is a bit too cloak-and-dagger for him. The entire mission seems ill-conceived; why wait for the patrols to start pulling people out of houses, when they could be attacking the patrols pre-emptively? Sure, this resistance is undermanned, but if the gate houses leading into the Market District could be taken over, even briefly, then any portcullises could be lowered. Cut the pullies, they stay locked shut until repaired, delaying any patrols from even entering the district. It's like how Röc's tribe would divide caravans and block escape routes before an ambush, so none of the meat got away. You don't need to block it permanently; just long enough to delay your enemy's plans. And if the Grey Society's zombies only drag people from their homes at night, then maybe, if the gates were broken until morning...

But Röc is being paid to follow orders. The plan is, avoid patrols until they pull people from their houses. And if Röc doesn't follow orders, he expects to kiss his accomodations goodbye.

Röc lets out another breath, low and grumbling. And he goes with his employer's plan.

Well, that went bad almost immediately. Röc briefly considers chasing down the old man, but decides against attacking a civilian. Even if that civilian is calling the undead watch for the crime of loitering. Röc briefly wonders what other "crimes" this man reports to the watch, and what happens to the "criminals" he reports. The rumors of home abductions are starting to make sense, at least.

Röc places a bet. If he can ambush the incoming watchmen...

"Hide and get ready to strike," Röc says to Gurtha and Brigon. "Or run, if you'd prefer. I'll lure the watch to me." And Röc unsheathes his maul.

While waiting for the watch to arrive, Röc grabs barrels, crates, carts, doors, chunks of pavement out of the ground; whatever's big and heavy and nearby. And, should he be able, Röc places the obstacles to block the path the old man took. Ideally, this barricade will buy time for Röc's fellows or create a funnel for the watchmen. But can Röc complete the task?

Röc pays no mind to the hidden halfling; just another civilian to avoid bothering. Röc's focus is on the undead.

No archers, just clubs. Röc's scales can take a pounding from light weapons, so long as Röc doesn't let his guard down. The only threat Röc sees is in their number. Röc isn't sure how autonomous these watchmen are, but he doesn't want any retreating to alert others.

"Evening," Röc says, readying his maul. "Not a fan of mercs, I take it?"

And Röc leaps into the team of skeletons, and crushes.

That was embarrassing. Still, the plan worked, even if Röc got a bit scuffed up. Normally, in this stage of the ambush, Röc's tribe would be celebrating victory. But this seems a bad time for that.

Röc quickly checks in with their fellows to ensure there's no injuries. Then, a quick debrief:

"I don't think more will come, but we should move anyways. Let's go." And Röc turns to the shadows, raising their voice so it can be heard. "Guide, if you're still nearby: we have no problem with you. Let us be."

Röc is used to the ick of swamps, but these alleys are...disappointing? Röc would've expected a city to deal with its waste better than this. Maybe if the city had a proper government, there would be people trying to improve things.

Röc follows Gurtha silently without quarrel. Part of basic battlefield communication is knowing when to shut up and listen instead of waste time arguing, and this is one of those times.

Röc had prepared for so many battlefield eventualities. But nothing could prepare him for the dreaded, horrible, friendly conversation.

Röc feels the gazes resting upon him. "Uh...hi, Röc says.

...

...

...Röc preferred getting grappled by skeletons.

It seems rude to not sit. But trying to somehow finangle Röc's thick lizard tail while sitting on the couch seems even more awkward.

Röc sits cross-legged on the floor. Surely, this is the least awkward possibility, Röc thinks.

So without the Grey Society, Drakonheim had too few soldiers...Röc wonders how Drakonheim survived before the Grey Society. In Röc's tribe, everyone was a warrior; Röc guessed the other races weren't as extreme, but to have so few soldiers that they turned to necromancy?

Röc shakes his head, listening along but remaining silent. However, he tries his best not to get too enraptured by the conversation. He still needs to keep an ear out for any undead pulling people out of their homes.